


I'm So Into You

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, That Good Post-Spar Sex, jealous!Wynonna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 07:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11778114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: “Did you lock the door?”“I think I just got whiplash from that subject change,” he says seriously.  She strokes his jaw with a quick smile.  “But, yeah, I locked it.”





	I'm So Into You

The third time Wynonna hits the mat, she groans and flings her arms to either side and demands a break.  She expects a taunt, but Dolls just looks at her, sweat on his brow, and nods.  Grabbing his water bottle, he drops onto his ass next to her.

She only sits up when he offers her a drink.  “I can’t believe I’m _useless_ ,” she sighs dramatically.  “Time to take me out back and put me out of my misery.”  As she complains, she rolls her shoulders—the left one took the brunt of her fall, and the mat _is not that cushy_.

“You’re not useless,” he says, frowning.  “Like, it wasn’t _that_ long ago you pushed an entire baby out of your—” he gestures, pulling a face like he was there to _see_ it or something, and she shoves him with a groan, which really only makes him laugh.  “I’m just saying, you needed time to heal and rest and all that fun stuff, so you’re gonna be a little rusty.”

Still scowling, she can’t quite bring herself to look away from his small, quiet smile.  Because—because he _looks_ at her like that sometimes, soft and like… like she _wants_ him to keep looking at her like that.  At home, it’s harder because she feels like the baby has become a gulf between them—he doesn’t look at her, or he looks at her too much, face closed and inscrutable, _especially_ when Doc is over.  Which he is.  Often.  Because she wants him there—because Sprout _deserves_ that.  And it’s not like she regrets her choices, or even the non-choices that brought her here, she never imagined she’d actually feel this _overwhelmed_ with feeling for the kid, but there’s still something wanting.  She wonders if this isn’t just it, though—maybe she really can’t have her cake and eat it too.  So, she’ll take this, and if it’s a little bittersweet… well, no one has to know, do they?

Soon, though, he looks down and smacks the back of his hand against her arm and says, “C’mon, Earp, break’s over.”

Grumbling, she lets him pull her to her feet and tries not to enjoy that simple, innocent, fucking _ridiculous_ minimal physical contact so goddamn much.  His movements are familiar on a bone-deep level—he steps back away from her, plants his feet, breathes deeply as he takes a stance, and she forces herself to look at his face and not the taut muscles of his arms.  It’s not her _fault_ , okay?  It’s been so goddamn long since someone had so much as _offered_ to touch her and she’s always had focus issues, anyway.  Shoving stray hair behind her ear, she mirrors him, and the movements are comforting in that she knows how to do this. 

She starts.  She goes low.  (She always goes low.  He’s really stacked and she’s really not and it’s really the only strategy that makes sense.)

His hands stop short, never actually lands a blow, but she feels it like a physical weight anyway.  Unbidden, the image of him the night before—laughing at something Rosita was saying, she thinks, and the familiar way she’d punched his arm and tipped her head, ponytail bouncing—comes to the forefront of her mind and a flame of _something_ pissed and hot and _jealous_ flares up in her chest and it distracts her enough for him to knock her back.

So fast she barely realizes what’s happening, he grabs her, arm around her middle, and his gaze is so intense into her eyes that she feels like she’s drowning.  “Where’d you go?” he asks, altogether too quietly.

For too long, she feels like her face is telling a secret she doesn’t even realize she’s keeping before she clamps her mouth shut and pushes out of his grasp, saying, “Didn’t go anywhere, just rusty.”

There’s something at that, she thinks, the way his eyes shutter, and maybe it’s hurt she sees or maybe she’s imagining it.  In any case, she pulls away.  (He lets her _go_ , which is another monster entirely.)  The next bout, she doesn’t _mean_ to actually connect, doesn’t mean for the heel of her hand to smack full-force into his chest, and she winces the moment it happens and he stumbles back a step, rubbing the spot and giving her an unreadable look.

“Sorry,” she grunts as she digs her thumb into her palm.

“I doubt that somehow,” he replies dryly, but there’s something like a smirk curling his lips.  There must be something still on her face because, even as he lifts her off her feet in a weird kind of bear hug (Is this training?  When will this ever happen in the field?), he asks, “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Wrong with _me?”_ she demands, exaggeratedly offended as her feet touch down and she twists and jabs a knee into his stomach, just short of actually knocking the wind out of him.  “What’s wrong with _you?”_

He grabs her by the back of her knee, making her lose her balance and she lets out a _whoosh_ of breath as she hits the mat again.  “Stop deflecting, there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Yeah?” she laughs nastily, kicking his legs out from under him and only kinda hurting her shin in the process, weirdly satisfied when he goes down.  “Hard same.”

He lifts his head up to fully impress upon her how little he believes her with nothing more than a look before letting out a breath and dropping back.  “Talk to me, Earp,” he says, gentle and neutral.

With a frustrated little growl, she pushes to her feet and offers her hand wordlessly.  Like, what’s she supposed to say?  Ask why he’s gone so distant since she popped?  Ask what the hell they even are?  Demand that he let her climb him like a tree and ride him into the sunset?  Beg him to either stick his tongue in her mouth or move out of her house because she can’t take many more mornings waking up with the knowledge that he’s _there_ but not _with her?_   But even after she leverages him to his feet, he’s waiting.  Like a toothache she just can’t stop bothering, her mind goes back to Rosita.  Because it’s not even just last night—it’s any time Doc brings her around to see the baby or have dinner or have drinks (which she’s still not even allowed to drink because breastfeeding and she’s bitter as hell), _somehow_ they end up together and she almost misses the days when they hated each other and she… she just hates herself for it because what kind of bitch doesn’t want her partner-boss-friend to have friends?

Finally, she realizes she’s just staring at him, and she has no control over her face, and he’s waiting on an answer.  There’s bitterness on her tongue, in her throat, when she says, “You and Rosie seem awfully close lately.”

“Well, a woman ensures I don’t slip into the abyss of frenzied reptilian murder on a regular basis, I try to stay on her good side,” Dolls replies, brow furrowing.

“Uh-huh,” she huffs.  “You do know she’s with Doc, right?”

Now he full-on glowers and snaps, “Do _you?”_

Her mouth falls open as something wrenches in her gut as she takes half a step back.  “Wait—ex _cuse_ me?  I don’t—I don’t care who the guy’s _fucking_ ,” she fairly shouts before realizing they’re still in the station.

“You sure?” he asks with a sneer, “’Cause I don’t think you’re sure.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she hisses, stepping forward until they’re nearly nose-to-nose, “You know that?  Absolutely unbelievable—I don’t have to justify my relationship with _anyone_ to you.”

“Oh, but I do?” he demands.  “You know why I hang out with her?  Because you and Holliday are too busy playing house to realize you’re rubbing salt in that girl’s wounds.  Because, otherwise, it’s just you two wrapped up in your own little world and us on the outside talking about the goddamn weather.”  He stomps out of her space, paces a little as he rubs the back of his head, and she—she just can’t speak, she’s been rendered completely speechless with fury alone.  “He’s the father to your kid, we get it, but—God, it’s alienating to be in a room with you two, so don’t take your insecurity in your relationship with _him_ out on the bystanders.”

And that… shocks the anger right out of her as a realization hits her and she laughs hollowly.  “You’re such a _guy_ about things sometimes, Jesus Christ,” she says, rubbing her face.  She watches him pause and stare at her, all perfectly blank and unfeeling and _truly fucking infuriating after that outburst_.  Sighing, she shakes her head quickly.  “Dude, I know _exactly_ where my relationship with Doc is—that’s not—he’s not who—”

She stops and almost hopes he’ll—what, help?  Get her out of this mess she’s caused entirely with her own mouth?  Say “Gotcha!” and bail her dumb ass out?  Instead, he just waits.

“I—I love you, you fucking dingus,” she blurts.  Almost as soon as the words come out, she wants to swallow them back up—it’s too soon, it’s not even what she meant to say, she shouldn’t have said that _at all_ —and his face is broken open, surprised and something else she can’t decipher.  “I _never_ wanted you to be a bystander,” she says when he still doesn’t speak up, small in a way that’s so _easy_ to hate.

“Oh.”

Gaping, she can’t help the indignant, “Really?  That’s all you’re gonna say?” 

“Kinda a thing to spring on someone,” he replies.

She snorts.  “Yeah, well…” she trails off lamely, waves her hand awkwardly.  “Anyway, maybe we should get back to that super sexy training where you were leveling my ass.”

For a moment, she thinks he might protest—she thinks maybe she wants him to, maybe she wants him to, like, goddamn _address_ that embarrassing admission, maybe she wants the ground to open up and hell to swallow her whole.  Instead, what he does is resume his ready stance and wave her forward.  Taking a deep breath, she surges forward, stops short of landing a strike on his throat that he doesn’t move to defend.  Frowning, she starts to take half a step back when he starts, “So, what are you say—”

With a groan, she wrestles him to the ground (no small feat, honestly, and she’s pretty sure she pulled something doing it) and pins him.  “Shut up, we were training,” she orders.

“This,” he says, flipping her before she can figure out what’s happening—she’s _sure_ there’s a superpower in there he’s not telling her about—and crouching over her, “Is totally training.”  His smile is hesitant but very much there and her heart flutters a little.  “So, anyway, what are you saying?”

“I literally could not have been clearer,” she huffs, jamming her forearm into the joint of his elbow and making him wobble _just_ enough to get back on top.  She straddles his chest and grabs his wrists, slapping them onto the mat over his head.

His eyes are on her, boring into her, so intense she doesn’t even breathe, when he asks, “Did you mean it?”

Her mouth opens and closes several times before she squeezes her eyes shut and chokes a quick bark of a laugh.  “What the fuck do you _think,_ Xavier?” she demands.  He’s still doing that thing, though, where he just ever so patiently waits for her to answer his question.  “I—of course I meant it, dude.  All of it.  Not, like, _exactly_ how I expected it to come out, but yeah.”  When he doesn’t respond, she bites the inside of her cheek.  “I _think_ this is the part where you say something.  Like I’m no expert, but…”

He sits up; she slides down until she’s kind of basically in his lap and releases her grip on his wrists.  “You meant it?”

Exasperated, she lets her hands fall limply to his shoulders and complains, “Listen, I know feelings aren’t really, like, our _thing_ , and I was honestly planning on just letting that fester until they cut it out of me in fifteen years, but I’m gonna _really_ need you to stop asking me that.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding like he’s agreeing to something that she doesn’t remember offering before slamming his lips into hers and it’s—God, it’s not like the others _at all_ because _he’s_ desperate and hungry and clinging to her, bringing her impossibly closer with big, firm hands on her back, but it’s not the brief, fast, relieved pecks he’d peppered every inch he could reach the night she died.  She can’t even breathe with it, can’t do anything but hold on and bite her way into his mouth and whine into it.  He pulls away suddenly, doesn’t let her chase him forward as he whispers, “Hey, just, like, for the record—”

“The official record?  The one we’re keeping on our rela—partnership?” she teases, dipping her head a little to nudge their foreheads together.

“For the _record_ ,” he repeats as if she hadn’t just interrupted, “I don’t wanna _be_ a bystander, and I—shit, I love you.”  And it’s said so frankly she almost can’t believe it—it almost doesn’t process, it’s like he’s talking about what they need to get from the grocery store.  She pulls away a little to search his face for any sign of… she’s not even sure what because this can’t be real, can’t be what she thinks it is.  All she finds is something very close to hope, close enough to make her heart skip a beat.  “But you gotta talk to me, okay?  This is your show, and I can’t…” he pauses thoughtfully.  “You’re the one who runs it, so, _unfortunately_ , it’s up to you to tell us—me—what’s up.”

She pulls a face.  “I’ll work on that,” she mumbles, guilt chewing at her gut.  “I’m gonna have to get Rosita a present, I’m such a shithead.”  Then, she has a thought, because she’s kinda all wrapped up in him, and his hands are still on her, and she’s only a human person who hasn’t been touched in _literal months_.  “Did you lock the door?”

“I think I just got whiplash from that subject change,” he says seriously.  She strokes his jaw with a quick smile.  “But, yeah, I locked it.”

“Good,” she whispers, nudging back into his lips, and this time it’s slow, and sweet, and soft, and she feels one hand come up to cradle her cheek.  His movements are easy and gentle as he shifts until she’s on her back and settles between her legs.

“Were you really planning on just never talking to me about us?” he asks suddenly, pushing up.

“Oh, believe me when I say yes, a thousand times yes,” she laughs.  Pulling him down, she murmurs between quick kisses, “You can’t really say you’re any better.”  His lips twist wryly, and she brushes her fingers against them, “C’mon boss, it’s honesty hour, apparently.”

“What happened to all that sexy talk about the locked door?” he deflects, making her snort.

“Okay,” she nods, wrapping her legs around his waist and dragging him forward until she feels his weight more fully, heavy enough to ground her, heavy enough to keep her pinned.  “Hi,” she breathes, letting her fingers trail over his jaw, something very close to awe growing in her that she’s allowed to do that.  “You’re sure the door’s locked?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good,” she grins, sharp and wolfish, “’Cause I’m gonna ride you ‘til you _break_.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” he chokes, dipping his head to bury his face into her neck.  When he laughs, it’s so big and full it shatters through her.  “You’re something else,” he says softly as his lips drag over her own jaw, her neck.

“Do _not_ give me a hickey where people can see—I look terrible in turtlenecks,” she orders, tipping her head to the side to give him better access anyway.

“You look great in everything,” he mutters distractedly.  He comes back up, and she arches up to suck his bottom lip, hands sliding low to yank his T-shirt up.

“So, are we a go for Operation Dragon Riding?” she asks, keeping her voice innocent, and his eyes crinkle up and he shakes his head and probably only kisses her to shut her up, but she’s happy to take it, humming when his tongue slips against hers as she strokes his sides.  She feels him shift, pushing up onto one elbow, his own hand pushes her tank top up, strokes over her side, her rib, resting just under her breast until she actually _whines_ because he needs to be touching her _now_.  Her whine shifts into a low moan when he finally _does,_ over her sports bra and a little rougher than she expected as their kiss grows hotter, hungrier. 

“Christ,” he huffs into her mouth when she drags her nails up his back, dragging his shirt up a little at a time until he pushes off of her to yank it up and off. She sits up and follows suit before giving him a gentle shove—he gets the message, drops onto his back as she climbs back on top of him.  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she grinds down into him and relishes his gasp.

“You’re, like, so hot,” she says, feeling stupid as soon as the words fall out of her, but he just grins, hands on her hips as she rolls gently against him, her own firmly planted on his shoulders to keep herself steady.  “Seriously, dude, you’re made of hot, I can’t believe we’re only just now getting to this.”

“God, shut _up_ ,” he groans, covering his face, but she can see the edge of his smile.

“Wait, wait,” she laughs.  “Wait, just,” she scoots back until she’s sitting on his thighs, dips down to kiss his collarbone, nip her way down his chest, as her hand brushes low on his belly, pausing only when she feels him ripple under her fingers, before slipping lower to stroke his cock through his sweats, “Just—is this your hoard, or are you just happy to see me?”

“I hate so much of what you choose to do,” he tells the ceiling.

“Yeah, I sorta caught that,” she says sweetly, pressing her lips and teeth as low as she can reach without moving back any more.  Soon, though, his fingers are on the back of her head, just under her ponytail, and he pulls her back up to mash their mouths together.  His other hand works under the hem of her pants, and she’s really gotta appreciate a guy who gets to the point after nearly two years of emphatically _not getting to the point_.  Letting out a soft moan, she rocks down against his fingers until they’re slip-sliding against her, then into her, and she hears herself saying, “This is so much fun but I need you to fuck me before someone remembers they work in here.”

“Romantic,” he returns dryly.  She frowns just a little and he sighs, “Take off your pants.”

“Too much work,” she mumbles.

He eyes her before smacking her thigh, “Alright, on your knees then?”

His tone is so affectedly disinterested it sucks a curse right out of her.  It’s kind of weirdly unnerving with her back to him, and even though she _knows_ he’s not the kind of guy to joke about this kinda thing she almost worries he’s gonna stick her with a _you’re on Candid Camera_.

Instead, his teeth graze her shoulder as his thumbs hook in the waist of her pants, push them down ever so slowly.  “No visible hickeys, right?” he asks quietly, sucking the spot he’d been teasing.

“Right, right,” she says thoughtlessly, shoving her bra up to palm at her own breasts.

“No doggy or dragon style jokes,” he warns, pushing her forward until she’s braced on hands and knees, waiting as he does actually take his sweet time getting her undressed—partially undressed.

“None whatsoever,” she breathes with a quick look over her shoulder just in time to watch him shove his own sweats down, watch the way his dick bounces up to his belly, the way he strokes it—doesn’t realize for too long that he’s watching her.

Face hot, she bends until her forehead hits the mat and starts to ask if he plans on screwing her at any point when she feels his hand curl around her waist as he eases into her, can’t quite stifle her shaky moan.  “Fuck,” he hisses when she pushes back eagerly—it’s right on the verge of too much until it’s _not_.  He goes slow at first, drawing little noises out of her as she tries _so hard_ to be quiet, asks, “Good?”

“Good—more,” she gasps, reaching back to grasp his hand, his wrist, his hip, as his slow roll grows faster, harder.  Digging her fingers into the mat, she bucks back against him and can _just_ hear his quiet groans.  There’s a strain in his voice, like he’s holding back, and, _shit_ , that’s something she’d never considered, that he might actually be _loud_.  She shoves herself back up, even as he crouches over her, plants his free hand near her knee, and the angle is better, his thrusts are shorter, as the fingers on her waist trail over her stomach, lower.

When he starts rubbing her clit, she has to cover her mouth to keep from crying out, teeth digging into her palm as the building pleasure damn near blinds her.  Still, as his hips snap forward, choked-off little whines keep escaping her throat as his own moans get buried into her shoulder.  She’ll probably be embarrassed by how quickly she feels her orgasm pooling in her gut, but right now it’s lost in a litany of _oh god yes please fuck harder more please_ that she can’t keep quiet.  It hits her hard as he drives into her and she barely _just_ swallows the shattered cry that threatens, _feels_ him cum as he breaks off a too-loud noise, raw and rough and _real_ , against her neck.

He doesn’t stop moving, rolling into her, for a long time, jerky motions slowing and fingers dragging up until his palm rests flat against her belly.

All she can do is croak a long, “Fuck,” as he peppers her neck with soft, quick kisses.  She rubs his arm, knees and arm shaking a little as he pulls out of her and drops his head to the top of her spine.

“Uh-huh.”

Quickly, she rights her bra and lets herself tumble onto the mat, suddenly grateful for even the smallest amount of cushion.  Eyelids drooping, she struggles to pull her pants back up, wriggles awkwardly on the floor until she’s mostly decent.  Everything feels suspiciously quiet.

“Do you think everyone out there heard us?” she asks, reaching to stroke his neck.

Frowning, he starts yanking his own pants up.  “Do you think they’ll pretend they didn’t?”

With a soft, satisfied smile, she lets him pull her up until she’s sitting.  “I _knew_ we were good together for a reason,” she teases, lips pressing to his throat.  After a few minutes, she wonders out loud, “Can this be our new workout routine?”

 _“Wynonna,”_ he groans.

**Author's Note:**

> How many fics in a row have I written by the request of/because of/for lunafeather??? Anyway, thanks for this request! (Shoutout also to aeroknot who mentioned Wynonna and Dolls and their first time being on the mats because... hoo boy.)
> 
> Also, Operation Dragon Riding was mine, but the line about the hoard was lunafeather's.
> 
> Come by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I'll be crying in 39 minutes.


End file.
